I carefully plucked the tails off my shrimp then placed them on a napkin. I folded it in four leaving it at the side of my plate.
I picked up my fork and inspected it, then summoned the waiter to the table.
“This fork is blemished.”
“Blemished?” He inspected the utensil, then looked at me with distain. “Are you serious?” He handed it back.
I felt a surge of electricity and stood up, burying the fork into his left eye. “Take a closer look.” I said.
“Now I need a new shirt,” I complained, eyeing the red stains.